


The Unforgivable Case

by 221BBakerStreet_London



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Coming Out, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BBakerStreet_London/pseuds/221BBakerStreet_London
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Ministry of Magic seeks the help of Sherlock Holmes for a spate of Muggle attacks. But this case is different and unlocks something in Sherlock. Something that John's been waiting to discover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, this is my very first fanfic. Ever. So I thought it should probably include my two favourite characters - Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter. Would appreciate any feedback/reviews!

**Chapter 1**

  
"I'm back!" John struggled through the hallway of 221B Baker Street, laden with shopping bags. "No thanks to yet another struggle with the bloody self service check out".

He opened the door into his flat and saw that Sherlock was interviewing a client. A prospective client. No case was a dead cert. If Sherlock found it even remotely boring or predictable, he would lose interest. He would then (not so politely) ask the prospective client to leave. This didn't seem to be the case with this particular man.

The first thing that struck John was that his flatmate - the inimitable consulting detective - was leaning forward in his chair. Not only that, he was *taking notes*. This was a first.

As John moved around to sit beside Sherlock, he got a better look at the man in question. He was wearing long black robes, a pair of round glasses and he had a mop of brown hair. He looked to be in his early 30s.

"John, this is Mr. Potter, our new client." Was that a hint of awe John detected in Sherlock's voice?

"Nice to meet you Mr Watson," the man on the couch replied. "We've heard all about you."

"Ah, another reader of the blog?" John ventured.

He felt Sherlock roll his eyes beside him.

Mr Potter looked confused. "A blog? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean by that. But I've heard all about you from Mycroft. A good Muggle ally."

"A good what?" John was getting more confused by the second.

Thankfully, Sherlock jumped in at this point. "Mr Potter is a wizard, John. A Muggle is someone non magical, like you or I."

John snorted with laughter. He could only assume Sherlock was winding him up, or trying to make him look stupid. He saw Sherlock share a knowing glance with their client, who handed him a piece of what looked like parchment.

"Here are all the details you need. Each attack is documented, including date, location and name. All we need you to do is find the connection between them so we can intercept the next attack. They're all Muggles, which isn't exactly our specialty. Not since Arthur Weasley retired anyway. They were all attacked with the same curse, Cruciatus, one of the three Unforgivable Curses. The use of any one is punishable with a long spell in prison. The Cruciatus curse is particularly cruel."

Sherlock nodded knowingly whilst John was left wondering if he'd had some kind of accident and woken up in a parallel universe.

Mr Potter continued, "I'll leave you with Flynn. He'll be waiting to relay any findings to me directly at the Ministry, or at home if needs be. We're keen to nip this in the bud, before we're forced to alert the Muggle Prime Minister".

He stood up and Sherlock did the same, much to John's amazement. He'd never seen a client out before. The two of them shook hands. Their client nodded to John and then, just like that, Mr Potter vanished. Into thin air.

John leapt up as though he'd been scalded. Sherlock simply laughed.

"Right, what is going on." John exploded. "Have you put something into my coffee again? Did that bloke just vanish? Why was he wearing robes? And who's Flynn?" John was getting pretty worked up and the amused look on Sherlock's face wasn't exactly helping.

"John, calm yourself. I need you to listen and believe everything I say without question. It will sound strange, but only by accepting what I say will you of any use whatsoever on this case. And I want you with me."

John nodded, uncertain, but willing to try. He was always willing to try when it came to Sherlock, and he trusted him implicitly.

"Harry - Mr Potter - is a wizard. One of many. They keep themselves to themselves and don't have much dealings with the Muggle - non magical - world. They have their own government, their own schools and their own economy. As the name 'wizard' would suggest, they can perform magic. Hence why our friend didn't need to use the front door to leave. As I said, they don't usually have dealings with Muggles, but occasionally needs must. Especially where Muggle safety is concerned. Mycroft has known Harry for some years, and in turn has introduced him to me."

John interrupted as Sherlock paused for breath, "but if they can do all this magic, why do they need our help?"

"Don't interrupt John. Recently there have been a spate of attacks on Muggles. It looks to be the work of one wizard, a sort of serial killer. Except he's not killing them, he's cursing them. The Cruciatus curse is illegal, and for good reason. It causes the victim intense amounts of pain. Used too much and it can destroy their mind. Whoever this attacker is, he's got a grudge and he's out to cause these people as much pain as possible."

"Sounds like revenge to me" interjected John.

"Precisely. Our task is to predict the identity of the next victim and be there waiting for the attacker when he arrives. To answer the least stupid of your previous questions, Flynn is a barn owl. He's sat in the tree outside."

John ran over to the window and, sure enough, a large barn owl was sat in the tree. John could have sworn it winked at him.

"And that's how we communicate with our client? I'm guessing emails and mobile phones aren't popular in the wizarding world?"

"Indeed. Flynn will know exactly where to find Harry at any time of the day or night. He'll also ensure our messages aren't intercepted by the wrong people."

"Right", John felt as though he needed some time to process everything. But that could wait. There was a familiar glint in Sherlock's eyes that told him he was eager to get going, so instead he said, "where do we start".


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is on. John and Sherlock pay a visit to the first curse victim.

**Chapter 2**

Parchment in hand, Sherlock was striding through the streets of London. John was practically running to keep up.

"Denise Towther, aged 43. Our first victim, attacked two months ago at her home in Essex." He put out his hand to hail an approaching cab and they both climbed inside.

"Liverpool Street station please."

They boarded a train to Clacton-on-Sea at 11.53. John finally had a chance to look through the parchment. There were five victims in total, the last one was attacked just yesterday.

"Any reason we're starting with Denise, not with Adam, the guy attacked last night?" John enquired.

"Of course. I always have reasons for my decisions, John."

God he could be infuriating.

"Interviewing Adam is off the cards for the moment. He's in St Mungos, the wizarding hospital, being treated for severe memory loss." Predicting John's next question, he continued. "Adam is a Muggle, but the problem he has is magical, so he needs to be treated with magic."

Sherlock sat back and closed his eyes. Not to sleep, but to think. John knew there was no point asking him anymore questions for the time being.

He took the opportunity to study his friend from across the table. He was twitching with nervous energy. Whoever this Harry Potter was, he had clearly made an impression on Sherlock. John had never seen him behave that way with a client before. He was almost deferential. Or as deferential as Sherlock was ever likely to be.

John chuckled to himself as he thought of his flatmate's attitude. He wondered why Harry Potter was different. He suddenly felt a stab of jealousy. John always prided himself on being the only person Sherlock was actually nice to. He wondered why he cared so much. He looked back at his friend. He was perfectly still, like a porcelain statue. But John knew that his mind was racing at a hundred miles an hour.

Sherlock rarely slept during cases. Another reason John wanted them wrapped up quickly. He worried about his friend, about the fact he never seemed to need sleep and would look progressively more drawn as cases went by. John would do his best to make sure he ate enough, but even that was a struggle. Although he was just his flatmate, John somehow felt responsible for Sherlock, for his well being. He hoped this case wouldn't drag on too long.

\---

They found Denise's house and knocked on the door. They heard footsteps, then a voice behind the door say, "Who is it?" She sounded nervous. John couldn't blame her. The last time she opened the door, she was hit with a curse.

"We're here to ask you some questions about what happened on the night of your attack. We're colleagues of Mr Potter." Sherlock's voice was soft, caring. John knew it was an act so she'd open up, but John loved hearing him like that. He shook himself. Now wasn't the time to be revisiting those feelings.

Denise opened the door. She looked physically unharmed but John could see the fear behind her eyes. He'd seen that same look in the eyes of the men he'd served with. He smiled at her kindly and shook her hand.

"John Watson, thank you so much for letting us into your home. We're going to do everything we can to catch the person who did this to you."

He could almost hear the eyes rolling in Sherlock's head behind him. He ignored him.

"Denise, tell us everything that happened that night. Quickly." Sherlock was back to his old self, it would seem.

"Well I was sat watching telly. My husband was out - it was pub quiz night at The Crown and he's captain of a team". John could feel Sherlock radiating impatience and glared at him, warning him to keep quiet.

Denise continued, "it was about 9pm and the doorbell rang. I thought perhaps Stuart had forgotten something, or he'd come home early and lost his keys. Anyhow, I went and answered it. There was a man stood on the doorstep. He was wearing a long black cloak with a hood. I couldn't see his face. He asked me if I was Denise and I nodded. Next thing I knew, I was hit with a blinding pain."

She stopped to gather breath. Sherlock looked as though he was about to interject but John put a warning hand on his leg. Sherlock looked surprised but stayed quiet.

Denise was struggling to maintain her composure. The memory of the attack was clearly haunting her. John stood up and moved to sit beside her.

"I understand it's difficult to relive it all. But we really need you to tell us everything you know so we can stop the attacks".

Denise nodded, swallowed and continued. John stole a glance at Sherlock, who looked impressed.

"I don't know who he was. His voice sounded evil, full of hate. By the time the pain stopped he had vanished. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful."

"Don't be silly, you've already been helpful". Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John ploughed on.

"What we're trying to establish is why you were attacked that night. And what connection you have with the other four victims. Only then do we have a chance of identifying the attacker. So Denise, we need you to tell us everything about yourself. Where you grew up, your parents names, where you went to school, everything. And we'll take that information away and try to find patterns."

Denise nodded and started to talk.

\---

On the train home, John was busy reading through the notes he had made. He was highlighting the points from Denise’s testimony he thought were most relevant when he felt eyes on him. He looked up to see Sherlock watching him with an odd expression. It might even be described as pride.

"John, sometimes I don't know what I did before you came along."

John blushed. Sherlock rarely complimented him and John didn't really know how to take it. He smiled and went back to his notes. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him.

"I guess we can't really deduce much until we speak to the other victims" said John.

"True, but there is certain information we can exclude. The attacker was a wizard and the victim a Muggle. All wizards in the UK attend Hogwarts from the age of 11. If the attacker and victim have some kind of shared history, we can assume it stems from before this time. I would hazard a guess he was someone from her primary school, which also tells us something important about her attacker."

Sherlock paused and John frowned at him.

"Go on, what does it tell us?"

"It tells us that he was Muggle born. Otherwise he wouldn't have had any contact with her. Most Muggle-born wizards only get confirmation of their status when they receive their letter to Hogwarts. Before that they can often be bullied, considered freaks by the Muggle children."

Sherlock paused and a dark shadow seemed to pass over his face. "Getting that letter is usually a massive relief for parents. It explains their child's oddities."

Sherlock fell silent and John returned to his notes. If what Sherlock was saying was correct - which it usually was - then Denise and her victim must have known each other as children. But what could she have done that would have provoked such an angry retaliation? And why now?

John looked up to discuss these questions with Sherlock, but his eyes were closed again, and he was deep in thought.

They got back to Baker Street just as the sun was going down. John sighed and flopped into his chair, but Sherlock was busy scribbling something onto a sheet of parchment. He rolled it up and walked over to the window. He opened it and almost immediately Flynn flew through it. He landed on the kitchen table and stuck out his leg. Sherlock tied the roll of parchment to it and Flynn flew away.

John shook his head in disbelief.

"I've requested a list of all the pupils that attended Denise's primary school between 1975 and 1981. One of them could well be our attacker. I've of course asked Harry to mark the names of any children who were wizards."

"Could there be more than one?"

"There are more wizards around than you realise John. They're everywhere, they're just very skilled at hiding it. They don't want the wizarding world to be discovered."

Silence ensued. Sherlock had started pacing the flat. He was clearly getting impatient.

John took the opportunity. "Let's get some dinner. I'm bloody starving and we're not going to see Flynn back for at least a few hours. Might as well get some food in us."

He was expecting a fight from the detective, but he simply smiled and nodded.

"Good idea."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case continues, but something is troubling Sherlock.

**Chapter 3**

The next victim on the list was based in London, thank goodness. They jumped in a cab the next day and headed to Chiswick. They pulled up outside a very nice house. "Some money here," muttered John as he climbed out behind Sherlock. 

The person who answered the door was a man called Brian. He was a similar age to Denise, lending credence to Sherlock's theory of a childhood link between him and the attacker.

It was the same story, a knock on the door late one night, a confirmation of his name and then sudden blinding pain. No view of the attacker's face. They took as much information about his past as they could, then headed home.

"Different school, but grew up in the same town as Denise. Must have come across the attacker another way. Could have been neighbours." John deduced. 

"I didn't like him much." Sherlock said, suddenly.

"Who? Brian? No, me neither, seemed very arrogant. I could see why he'd have enemies, although maybe not specifically wizards." 

"He's a bully," Sherlock replied quietly. "I hate bullies".

Normally, John would have quipped something about Sherlock hating everyone, but he didn't. This wasn't Sherlock's usual tone. There was something more to this, something personal. 

He looked over at him and Sherlock genuinely looked sad.

John didn't want him to close up like so many times before. He leant forward and said quietly, "I hate bullies too. Especially ones that hurt the people I love." 

His heart was in his mouth. Had he said too much? Sherlock said nothing in reply, but looked right into John's eyes.

The look went straight to his heart. He saw Sherlock as a young boy, picked on because he was different. John could do nothing else but stand up and go to him. He was desperate to put his arms around him and hold him close, but he didn't want to risk their friendship. It was too important. 

Instead, he sat beside Sherlock, as close as he dared and looked him right in the eye. 

"Sherlock, you're amazing. The children who picked on you couldn't see that because they were idiots. But there are plenty of people who love and respect you."

He couldn't bring himself to say "me most of all", but he said it with his eyes, and with the hand he laid on Sherlock's arm. Just as Sherlock was about to reply, they heard a familiar voice.

"Boys! Are you home? There's an owl downstairs and he seems pretty cross. I've locked him in the kitchen but I'm concerned for my crockery.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, sighed and shouted, "coming, Mrs Hudson!" 

Flynn had returned with a note from Harry. Just as Sherlock had requested, it was a list of people who had attended school with Denise. There were hundreds of names, and at least eight of them were circled with bright green ink, identifying them as wizards or witches. 

"Well I think we can assume that our attacker was a man, so that gives us six possible culprits."

Sherlock looked pretty pleased. 

John continued, "well let's visit Brian again and ask him which of the six he knew as a child. That'll help narrow it down". 

"No. I'm not visiting him again. Let's take the list of suspects to our third victim." 

Wow, thought John, Sherlock really must have hated him.

They consulted the list. The third victim was a girl named Sally. The confusing thing was that she was just 16. 

"Sherlock, this girl completely undermines our theory." 

"Why?"

"Because we're assuming that our culprit has some kind of childhood vendetta against the victims. But this one doesn't make sense. She wasn't even born when he was a child, based on our theory.”

"There'll be an explanation John, there usually is." 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Sally's Mum answered the door to her home in Twickenham. "She's not herself still," she explained, as she led them through the house. "These bloody people. They should be locked up. They're clearly dangerous." 

John looked at Sherlock. He was surprisingly calm. After their interruption from Mrs Hudson and Flynn yesterday, they hadn't resumed their conversation and John had moved back to his chair.

He hadn't forgotten the look in Sherlock's eyes though. 

They found Sally sitting in the conservatory, looking out into the garden. She had a vacant look in her eyes, and John wondered whether they'd get anything useful out of her. To his surprise though, Sherlock pulled out the list of six names and showed them to her mother. 

"Recognise any of these?"

"Sherlock, shouldn't we be asking Sally?" muttered John under his breath. 

Sherlock gave him a look and turned back to Sally's mother. She was reading through the list of names and nodding slowly.

“I knew Derek from school and Timothy was friends with my brother, Stanley.”

"Was there anything strange about them?" Sherlock's eyes had lit up. They'd basically managed to narrow it down to two suspects. 

"Both of them were odd, in their own way. Timothy was so quiet he never said boo to a goose. He spent most of his time caring for his sister. She wasn't well. Poor girl. I never did find out what happened to her. Timothy left home at 11, went to some kind of boarding school, although how his poor mother afforded it I'll never know." 

"And Derek?", ventured John.

"Derek, well he was a bit of a ladies man. Had loads of girlfriends at school, all at the same time mind." She giggled at some long forgotten memory. "He was a nice lad, but the family moved away and I never heard hide nor hair of him again". 

"Thank you very much Mrs Wells." With a flick of his coat, Sherlock turned and left.

"Come on John." 

John stammered a thank you to Mrs Wells and a quick goodbye to Sally, and followed Sherlock outside. 

"I think we can assume we have our suspect John." Sherlock was triumphant. "Let's get back to Baker Street and get an owl to Harry at the Ministry. The first five attacks happened in quick succession, the sixth could be imminent.”

"But Sherlock, how will we know who the sixth victim will be?" 

Sherlock didn't reply. Which meant he didn't know


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Sherlock sent Flynn off with the name of the culprit - Timothy Evans - taped to his leg. He then began writing the names of all the victims and sticking them on the wall. He made notes on their connection to Timothy, paced around and muttered to himself. John tried to help as best he could. 

"He was very specific, only targeting the right people. Apart from Sally. Why did he target her when he was clearly after her mother. A mistake?" 

"No John. He hated Sally's mother most of all. So he hit her where it would hurt most - her daughter." 

John was surprised. Sherlock had many talents, but reading emotions wasn't one of them. He turned and Sherlock was back to pacing and muttering. They only had a matter of time before Timothy struck again.

John had a sudden thought, "Sally's mother mentioned that Timothy was a friend of her brother. Why don't we track him down? If Timothy is tracking down people who affected him as a child, Stanley might be able to shed some light on who else might be a target." 

Unbeknownst to John, Sherlock had managed to procure Stanley's address. The unfortunate thing was he lived in Scotland. John didn't really fancy a lengthy train ride up the country, especially with an agitated Sherlock.

Luckily, Sherlock having a brother with good connections has its benefits. Soon enough, they were stood on the roof of St. Bart's and being ushered into a helicopter. 

"I thought this would be more comfortable that brooms, which is what Harry had offered us." 

John thought better than to ask. But something about the way he spoke about Harry bothered him. It was clear Sherlock didn't see him as just another client. It had been bothering him for days, but he didn't want to sound jealous by probing him about it. But they had a hour's helicopter ride ahead and now seemed as good a time as any. 

"Sherlock, did you know Harry before we took on this case? In a past life or something?"

"You know I don't believe in reincarnation John," came Sherlock's quick reply. 

John sighed. "You know what I mean Sherlock. You act different around him."

"Than around you?"

"Well no, but around our usual clients. You usually treat them like idiots, but with Harry, you were different. Respectful."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Well, apart from the fact he could kill me in seconds, he's also one of - if not *the* - most famous wizard of all time. He has a fascinating story." 

Sherlock spent the next ten minutes giving John a potted history of Harry Potter. John was shocked. He couldn't believe this man was in their living room just days ago. And to think he'd laughed when Sherlock had introduced him as a wizard. John felt his face burn with shame.

Sherlock seemed to read his mind. "Oh he won't hold it against you. He told me he liked you. Something about you being trustworthy. And he's a good judge of character, as you can imagine." 

John felt better. But he still couldn't shake the feeling of jealousy that had fallen over him since they took on the case. He wanted to reclaim the moment they'd had the previous day. When Sherlock had opened up and given John that tiny glimpse into his past, to his damaged heart. But he was back to the old Sherlock, hypothesising, mind running at speed, focused on the case.

"One thing we still haven't figured out. Why now? Why is Timothy suddenly taking revenge on all these childhood enemies. He's had all his adult life to perform this spell. What's triggered the cursing spree?" 

Sherlock sat back in his seat and raised his hands to his face, the way he does when pondering something difficult. 

"Honestly John, I have no idea. I'm hoping it's something we can gleam from our little chat with Stanley." 

A couple of hours later, they were in a cab driving through Glasgow. They pulled up to a terraced house on the outskirts of the city. 

Stanley answered the door. When they told him they were there to talk about Timothy, it was a resigned look that crossed his face. It was as though he knew it was coming. 

"Did you know it was Timothy who attacked your niece?" Sherlock asked him. 

"I guessed it probably was. He's been having a tough time of late. He's different, distant." 

"So you're still in touch?" Sherlock sounded surprised. Apparently it was unusual for wizards to stay close to their pre-magical friends. 

"Oh yes, we always have been. Even when he went to Hogwarts, we always met up during the school holidays. Timothy came home as often as he could to see Jenny. His sister," he added, by way of explanation. 

"Yes, your sister mentioned her. What exactly was the matter?" John asked. He had a feeling that Timothy's sister was a vital part of this story. 

"Nobody ever knew, but she was a sickly child. Never out and about, always laid up in bed with something or another. Timothy doted on her. She was two years younger than him. Not magical. She was bereft when he left for Hogwarts. They were both strange children in their way. Timothy struggled to make friends at school, well because he was so, different. He made things happen he couldn't explain. He knew things about people and couldn't tell them how. It unnerved the other kids I guess."

John stole a glance at Sherlock, his expression was unreadable. 

Stanley continued, "slowly but surely folks stopped speaking to him. He was never invited round for tea. I was the only friend he had, except his sister. I used to go round to his. Never told my Mum mind, she was just as suspicious as the rest of them. Thought the whole family was a bad lot." 

"But you didn't?" ventured John.

"No, I could see Timothy for what he was. A little boy scared to lose his sister, him against the rest of the world." 

"So what happened? Why is he doing what he's doing? Why now?" 

"His worst nightmare came true. He lost his sister. She killed herself two months ago. Timothy's world came crumbling down. The defences he'd put up against everyone, gone. The last person keeping him sane. He had nothing left to lose. So he finally took his revenge on the people who'd made his life miserable, who'd made his sister's life miserable. Anyone who had teased him at school, had thrown eggs at his house, had made his sister cry. I saw him at her funeral. He was just like the lost little boy I remember from childhood. But there was something else there. A hardness in his face, a fire in his eyes. I was afraid he'd go after her. Kill himself, I mean. I never imagined he'd do this." 

A silence had descended on the house. John waited for Sherlock to jump in, rip the man's story apart, cross-examine him. But nothing. Sherlock looked as though his mind was elsewhere. Not on the case. It was in the past. 

John filled the silence. "Stanley, we need to try and find out who Timothy might target next. We need to stop him in his tracks. Get him the help he needs." 

Stanley sighed. "It's tough. Timothy had a lot of enemies." 

John showed him the list of victims. 

"See any obvious patterns?" 

Stanley studied it for a good while. John stole another glance at Sherlock. He didn't look good. 

"Will you excuse us for a second Stanley? Sherlock, will you join me outside for a moment?" 

John expected a protest, but there was none. Sherlock simply followed him into Stanley's tiny backyard. 

"What's wrong? You're not with it at all?" John's voice was soft, full of concern for his friend. 

"Why is he the criminal?" Sherlock's voice was quiet, uncertain.

"Who? Timothy?" 

"Yes. He's spent his whole life as the victim. He's the victim. But he's not. He's the culprit. I know what wizards do to people like Timothy. Since that business a few years back, they take no chances. Azkaban, the wizard prison, it's no picnic. It's practically medieval." 

John paused. He'd never seen Sherlock like this. He never showed empathy, it wasn't in his nature. But something about this case had pierced his exterior. He sat on the wall and put his head in his hands. 

"John...I don't think I want to solve this case." 

"Sherlock, you can't let the parallels between this case and your own life dictate the way you feel about Timothy. First of all, you're nothing alike. Yes, you both had difficult starts. But you have a family who loves you and friends who care about you. You have me." 

"Exactly John. And what if something happened to you? Just like it did to Timothy's sister. I'm not you, I don't have other friends. I just have one." 

The gravity of what Sherlock said hit John like a ton of bricks. 

"Sherlock, I can't do this here. We're in the middle of a case." 

He turned and went back inside. When he looked out of the window, Sherlock was still sitting on the wall, head in hands. John felt as though a knife had gone through his heart. How could he leave him sitting there? But he didn't know what to say. He was terrified of his own feelings, terrified of what would happen if he finally told Sherlock how he felt. So he pushed it deep down and returned to the living room, where Stanley was sat. 

"I've no idea who the next victim could be. There are so many possibilities." 

"How did you leave him last? On good terms?"

"Oh yes, it wouldn't be me." 

They sat in silence for a while. Then Stanley asked, "is your friend ok?" 

"Yeah, he'll be fine. He's not usually like this. I think he feels sorry for Timothy. He's reluctant to see him sent to prison. I can see what he means. But what he did...they're called the Unforgivable Curses for a reason." 

Stanley nodded. "It's never black and white eh? Go out to him. I always regretted not trying harder with Tim. Maybe if I had, we wouldn't be sat here having this conversation now." 

John nodded. He was being a coward. Hadn't Sherlock saved his life, when he didn't think he had anything left worth living for? Now it's time for him to repay the favour. He went outside and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Fuck, though John. Now I'll never find him. If Sherlock doesn't want to be found, he'll have quite the hunt ahead.

He tried calling him. It was a long shot and of course he didn't answer. 

He hadn't come back through the house. John opened the gate at the back of the garden and set off down the alleyway. He had no idea which direction Sherlock had headed, but he'd be damned if he didn't try and find him. The state he was in earlier, there was no knowing what he'd do.

He walked and walked. He saw a park. It was run down and empty. A desolate place. And then he spotted him. Sat on a swing. Tears rolling down his face. John's heart felt as though it would break in two. 

He walked over to the swing set and sat next to Sherlock. Neither spoke for a few moments. 

"I'm so sorry Sherlock. I should never have walked away. Not after you said those things. I just didn't know..."

"It's fine. You don't want to ruin our friendship. I get it. But it still hurts. Being rejected. By you." Sherlock's voice broke and he stood up and started to walk away. 

"Wait. Rejected? I didn't reject you. I just didn't want to ruin everything. I didn't want to presume. You're so closed. The only time I ever ventured to try anything was just after we met, and you told me quite firmly you were married to your work. So I left it alone. And I didn't ever let myself believe it could happen, because I didn't want to lose you. If I couldn't have you as my own, I wanted you as my friend. My best friend. And that's better than nothing, a thousand times better." 

Sherlock stopped and turned to face John. He had a puzzled look on his face, tears stood in his eyes, unsure of whether to keep falling. "So, all this time?" 

"Yes. Always, Sherlock." 

He moved towards him. Kept moving until they were face to face. He reached a hand up and wiped a tear from Sherlock's cheek. He pushed his hair from his face. He just wanted to touch him. He'd wanted this for so long and now he didn't know where to start. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's lips. He felt Sherlock sigh. Not with annoyance, with relief. John did the same and looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. They were full of love, the pain had gone. He felt a shiver run down his spine.

He let his lips meet Sherlock's. They we're soft and warm. They opened to meet John's and it was though they both woke up from a long sleep. They hungrily devoured one another, hands in one another's hair. Breathless and desperate, needing each other more than ever. Some time later they broke apart, looked at each other and giggled like nervous schoolboys. 

"Well, that's not what I expected would happen today," said Sherlock, finally. 

"No, it wasn't on my agenda either. Bloody glad it did though."

Sherlock smiled shyly. It melted John's heart. 

"We should be getting back to Stanley, he'll be wondering where we've got to. He didn't shed much light on who the next victim could be. He said there were too many to choose from." 

"Maybe there won't be one." 

"Really?" 

"What's he trying to achieve? He's not bribing anyone. These are the last acts of desperate man. He could burn out at any time. He'll know he's being watched. He'll be stupid to try anything else now." 

"Maybe you're right."

"Of course I'm right John." A glimpse of the old Sherlock makes him smile. He accompanied his remark with a kiss on John's temple. Not quite like the old Sherlock after all. 

They walk back to Stanley's house. John resists the overwhelming urge to hold his hand. Just as they're about to ring the doorbell, Sherlock stops suddenly. They could hear voices. Pleading. 

"He's here." 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

They stood and listened. It would only be a matter of time before Tim realised they were there. But they wanted an idea of what they were dealing with before they went storming in.

The pleading was coming from Stanley. He wasn't pleading for his own life, he was pleading for Tim's.

"We can help Tim. There are people who can help you, who want to help you. I've met the people who are trying to find you. They're good people."

"I can't go to Azkaban, Stan. I just can't." Tim sounded desperate, wild. He could do anything at any moment.

John's first thought was for Sherlock. He was terrified the detective would charge in and get killed. He held onto his arm. It was as though Sherlock could read his mind, because he muttered, "don't worry John, I'm not a fool".

John went to the window. He could see Tim stood with his back to them. He looked as though he'd not been home in days. His clothes were filthy and torn, his hair wild. He held a wand to his temple. In front of him was Stanley, holding out his hands, trying to calm him down.

He spotted John at the window. He made eye contact, but before John could relay any kind of message, Sherlock grabbed him.

"They're here. Look up."

John looked up at the sky, and sure enough, three broomsticks sped towards them. Putting aside his disbelief, as he'd been doing all week, John's first instinct was to stand in front of Sherlock. He didn't know what was coming, but he didn't want to take any chances.

The three broom riders leapt off. Harry walked straight up to Sherlock. "What's happening? Any attacks?"

"No, he wouldn't attack Stanley. They're friends."

"Ok. Let's tread softly here guys. No need to go storming in blasting spells. I'll go in alone."

The wizard next to him began to protest, but Harry held up his hand to silence him.

"Ron, I'll be fine. I'm not going in unarmed. I just want to avoid a duel if it can be helped."

Harry pushed open the front door and went in. They heard him speaking in a low voice to Timothy. Suddenly there was a flash of green light and Ron ran into the house.

"Shit. What was that?" John's held onto Sherlock's hand. Not through fear, but through protection.

A few moments later, Harry emerged carrying a limp body in his arms.

"I tried to stop him. But he couldn't see past the darkness. He couldn't see any other way out."

They all stood silently. John felt Sherlock's grip on his hand tighten. He knew how much this was hurting him. He'd wanted so badly to see this man redeemed. Nothing had been solved today.

Well, almost nothing.

Harry thanked them for all they had done. He wished them well. Checking that Sherlock was out of earshot, Harry whispered to John, "Mycroft will be thrilled, by the way. He always speaks so highly of you."

John wondered how Harry could have known, could have noticed. But maybe it was obvious. He walked after Sherlock towards the helicopter which would take them back to London.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The helicopter ride was quiet. John and Sherlock just sat, basking in one another's company, fingers intertwined. At one point Sherlock leant his head on John's shoulder. 

John was a whirlwind of emotions. He was sad about Tim, worried about Sherlock, excited about getting home to Baker Street.

An hour or so later, they walked through the door and straight upstairs. They stood for a moment, looking at one another. All John wanted to do was take him in arms and kiss him. But he wanted Sherlock to take the lead. Surprisingly, he went and sat on John's chair. 

"This is where I sit when you're away. Come and sit with me." 

He didn't need to be asked twice. He slotted underneath Sherlock's sinewy form, and put his arms around him. He positioned himself so they were face to face, and leant in to kiss him. Not on the lips, but on his eyes. Sherlock closed them and nuzzled his face into John's. Their lips found one another and the heat intensified between them. But John didn't want to rush things. This wasn't another one night stand, this mattered. It mattered more than anything.

"John, you're thinking very loudly. I'm a bit insulted. I should have thought kissing me would have used up all your brain power." 

Sherlock was back. 

"I was thinking about you. Worrying about you actually. Worried about pushing you too far. Pushing you away." 

"John, you can't spend your time worrying about that. You need to trust that I want this too. I've spent enough time weighing it up. I may be impulsive, but not with something as important as this. Not with you, John. I thought I made that clear earlier today." 

"You did, I just don't want to take advantage. You're vulnerable today, after what just happened." 

"You're not taking advantage. I'll always be a little bit vulnerable, but only to you, so don't tell anyone. Especially not Mycroft, he'd never let it go." 

John laughed and wrapped his arms around Sherlock even tighter. He kissed him gently on the lips. "Speaking of Mycroft, he might already know. About us, I mean, if Harry has anything to do with it." 

"Mycroft has probably known for quite some time John, he always has a way of knowing what's about to happen. It's deeply irritating." 

They sat there for at least another hour, enjoying one another's company. Then John's leg went dead and his stomach started rumbling. 

"Dinner?"

"Yeah, alright".

"Angelo's?"

"Where else?"

\---

They fell through the front door, giggling. Angelo had spotted the change in their demeanor immediately and had opened a bottle of champagne. And then another. They silently toasted Tim before they drank - to his memory, to the little boy who had no friends but one. 

Mrs Hudson came out in her hairnet when she heard them.

"Oh it's you two. I thought it was drunkards. Although I might have been right," she tailed off as she saw them in a heap on the floor. 

"I'll leave you to it boys. Try not to stay up too late. And do try and be quiet." She giggled to herself as she went back into her flat. 

"John, I want to take you to bed. But I fear I'm too drunk." Sherlock whispered, rather loudly, into John's ear. John simply sank further into his arms as way of response. They started making their way upstairs. It was a slow journey. They fell into John's bed in a heap. And promptly fell asleep. 

The next morning, John found the sun streaming into his eyes. It was painful. His head was pounding. He looked over at Sherlock. He was still sleeping despite the presence of the sun on his perfect face. Despite his churning stomach and thumping head, he couldn't resist kissing those eyelids.

Sherlock stirred but didn't wake, so John went in search of coffee. To his great relief, Mrs Hudson had left a tray of coffee and bacon sandwiches, with a note reading 'hope this helps boys x'. 

John smiled. He didn't know what they'd do without Mrs Hudson. At that moment, he considered her a lifesaver. He picked up the tray and took it back through to the bedroom. Sherlock was beginning to wake, probably thanks to the smell of the coffee. 

"You absolute star John." 

"I can't take any credit, it was all Mrs Hudson."

"A wonderful woman, I always said so." 

John laughed and tucked into a bacon sandwich. 

It took them two hours to start feeling human again, thanks to copious amounts of coffee. 

"I don't know about you," began John, untangling himself from Sherlock's arms, "but I need a shower."

"Mmm, yes you do," replied Sherlock, with a dirty edge to his voice that sent a shiver right down to John's groin. 

"Care to join me?" 

"As my favourite person would say, oh God, yes".

They started to undress each other like teenagers. Pulling t-shirts over their heads, stopping to stare at one another's torso's. John bent down to kiss Sherlock's chest, leaving the detective moaning in pleasure. John could feel his trousers straining under the pressure of his growing erection. Just seeing Sherlock looking at him like that made him rock hard. 

"Come on, or we won't make it to the shower at all."

"And that's a bad thing because...?" retorted Sherlock, busy unfastening the button of John's jeans. John's eyes rolled back in his head as Sherlock brushed his growing erection. 

"We can shower later," gasped John, as he pushed Sherlock back onto the bed. He climbed on top of him, pinning the detective's arms above his head, kissing hungrily at his mouth, his jaw, his neck, biting, moaning, writhing. 

"John."

Just hearing Sherlock moaning his name almost tipped him over the edge. 

He moved down Sherlock's chest, kissing, biting, licking every part of his porcelain skin, feeling him moving beneath him. He reached the waistband of Sherlock's jeans, already feeling his erection straining through the fabric. He pulls them down, pulls his boxers down, freeing his shaft. He licks the tip of it with his tongue and Sherlock moans his name, thrusts upwards.

John responds by taking his whole length into his mouth. He's never done this before, but it feels so easy, so right. He takes Sherlock deep, enjoying the pleasure he's giving.

Sherlock pulls away, "no, not yet, I don't want it to end yet". 

Sherlock flips John over, straddles his legs and grabs his ass. John likes this Sherlock, commanding him, dominating him. "John, I want to fuck you, will you allow me to?" 

In any other scenario John might have laughed at the formality of Sherlock's question, but given the circumstances, he responded with a desperate "fuck yes".

He felt Sherlock's tongue running along his arse, finding his hole, opening it with his tongue, licking, lapping. It felt like nothing on earth. But he wanted more, and he told Sherlock so.

He heard him reach into John's bedside draw, pull out a bottle of lube and squirt it onto his hands. One finger, then two, pushed slowly into him. He felt like he would explode with pleasure. Sherlock began circling his fingers round and round, readying him. John briefly wondered whether he's done this before, but his mind didn't stay focused long. He pushed back into Sherlock, wanting more, always wanting more.

He felt Sherlock sit up and felt his rock hard length pressing against his cheeks. 

"Yes Sherlock, fuck me, I'm ready." 

Slowly, gently, he entered John, whispering his name over and over as he did so. He sunk into him, saying his name and it felt amazing.

"Harder", whispered John. Sherlock obeyed, thrusting harder and harder, then suddenly, when John thought he might pass out from the pleasure, Sherlock shouted his name and filled him.

Panting, he withdrew and turned John around. He kissed him hungrily on the lips, then turned his attention south to John's straining erection. 

"Your turn."

The gleam in his eyes were enough to reduce John to a gibbering mess. Sherlock licked the length of John's shaft, forcing him to throw his head back. Then Sherlock took him wholly into his mouth.

It wasn't going to be long before he came, he was close already. Looking down and seeing Sherlock's curly hair, moving up and down, pleasuring him, brought him to the brink. 

"Sherlock, I'm close, fuck."

Sherlock moved faster, harder, using his tongue to bring John to orgasm. John came into Sherlock's mouth stroking his hair, shouting his name. Sherlock sat up, wiped his mouth and grinned. 

"Now we can have a shower, we've earned it." 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed my little (quite filthy) story. I certainly enjoyed writing it!


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